


sweet creature

by 1000_directions



Category: One Direction (Band), Venom (Comics)
Genre: A Romantic Wank Gone Awry, I'm...Genuinely So Sorry, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Other, mild body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 05:54:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17218244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1000_directions/pseuds/1000_directions
Summary: Harry Styles and his symbiote: a (self) love story.





	sweet creature

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saysthemagpie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saysthemagpie/gifts).



> Jes said she didn't want to read superhero crossover fic, so I wrote superhero crossover fic specifically for her because I'm a TERRIBLE FRIEND who doesn't listen and views everything as a challenge.
> 
> Listen. Harris Reed did not have a character tag. I had to create one for this story. For _this story_. Oh my god, I am so sorry.
> 
> (Jes, you are under NO OBLIGATION to like or read this story, which you explicitly said you did not want and which I wrote anyway because I'm an asshole. Sorry, sorry, sorry, love you)

Harris doesn’t give Harry much warning that he’s dropping by, just a text that says: _Something for you. On my way._ But Harry’s only been back in London for about six hours and he’s already feeling bored and lonely after spending the hols with his mum and Gemma, so he thinks he might welcome the company. Besides, Harris is bringing him a present. Harry _loves_ presents.

It’s all a little underwhelming when Harris shows up and can’t be bothered to say hello before thrusting a pile of slippery black fabric into Harry’s arms. It’s not even on a hanger, and Harry has no idea what it’s supposed to be. He keeps a tight grip on it, though; he knows it’s just fabric, but it feels like it’s trying to slither right out of his arms.

“Don’t you want to fit it on me?” Harry asks hopefully as Harris turns his back to leave. Harris is usually fun to be around, thoughtful and loud and silly and adulating, and Harry had hoped maybe they’d have a drink or a chat, something to make the evening go by more quickly.

“It will fit,” Harris says gruffly, and he walks away.

Harry closes the door after him. That was odd, but some people get odd around the holidays. Maybe he’s had a rough time with loss or despair, or maybe he’s just hungover from some fabulous party he went to yesterday. People are entitled to their own complex private lives. They are not here to perform for Harry just because he fancies some company, just like Harry is not obligated to perform for anyone else during his downtime. He reminds himself of this, sternly, and then he brings his armload of who-knows-what into his dressing room and lovingly deposits it on his antique velvet fainting couch.

Harry turns on the lights and fusses with the dimmer switch until the room has a pleasant ambient glow. He strips off his T-shirt and his lounging slacks, folding them precisely before lowering them into his hamper, and he awkwardly steps out of his socks, feeling coltish and unsteady as he one-leggedly hops around to catch his balance. And then he stands before his full-length mirror, eager and naked, and he sees himself as he is, stripped down to skin and tattoos. He likes his body. He hasn’t always, but he does now. It’s a body that’s nice to inhabit, a body that feels like home to him. His body protects him and turns him on and tells the world a little about who he is. Not too much, but a little bit. Just a hint.

Harry turns to the puddle of slinky black fabric spilling off the side of his couch, and he excitedly scrunches up his toes in the plush carpet. Harris was being odd, but his clothing is always delightful. He hasn’t yet chosen an outfit for New Year’s Eve, and hopefully this will be an option.

He picks up the garment and tries to determine which end is up, but it’s a difficult outfit to contend with. It feels vaguely muscular in his arms as he attempts to hold it up to his body. It’s almost like he’s struggling for control, like the outfit is...conscious, somehow. No, not quite that. Something less fanciful than that. He edits himself in his own mind, tries to think slowly and deliberately.

He finally, finally sorts out which bits are meant to be sleeves and which are legs, and he eagerly steps into it, wriggling it up over his body before the outfit can become aware of the intrusion and-- no, not _aware_ , that’s mad.

He gets the thing on and stares at himself in the mirror, and _holy shit_ , Harris truly outdid himself this time. It’s some sort of a black catsuit, he supposes, sleek and rather sexy in spite of its modesty. It’s not quite stretchy, there’s a generous heft to whatever the material is, but it’s perfectly contoured to his body. There don’t seem to be any enclosures on the outfit. No zippers, no eyelets. Nothing to strap him in and keep the thing from falling off. And yet, Harris was right; it does fit, and it’s perfect. It feels like another skin. No, it feels like he’s being hugged from his wrists down to his ankles. It feels...sensual.

And, well, it’s not like he has any other plans for the night.

Harry turns off the light in his dressing room and pads back into the bedroom. He switches on just one of the bedside lamps; two would be too harsh, and he’s seeking something a little cosier. He looks to the grand piano nestled in the corner of the room, lid closed so it can host a variety of fancy candles. He has another piano in the parlour for composing and performing; this one is just there for the aesthetic, and he allows himself a moment to imagine what he would look like stretched across the instrument, snug black material crawling over his long limbs like it’s alive.

He thinks he’d look quite lovely. Maybe he should take a selfie. Afterwards.

He has a lot of candles to pick from, some well-loved and often lit, some still pristine and virgin. There’s a particular Diptyque candle that he’s been saving for a special occasion, and maybe that occasion is tonight. _Oyédo_. It’s supposed to be energetic and sensual, which sounds promising. He cradles the candle in his hands, glancing around for his monogrammed matchbox.

_NO CANDLES._

Harry’s whole body jerks in surprise, and he wheels around wildly, trying to figure out where that voice came from. But he’s alone in the room. Of course he’s alone. He must have imagined it. He spies his matchbox and strides over to it purposefully, opening the lid and taking out one long, elegant matchstick.

_NO FIRE. NO CANDLES._

He’s more prepared for the voice this time, but he still accidentally snaps the matchbox lid shut, which hurts both his fingertip and his pride. What _is_ that voice? Is it him? Is it...his conscience? Maybe there’s a reason he isn’t supposed to light the candle. Maybe his mind is trying to tell him something.

He decides to listen. Candles can be a fire hazard, and he certainly seems to be out of sorts tonight. It wouldn’t do to accidentally burn down the flat just because he wanted to have a romantic wank.

Harry climbs into bed and reclines against his supple padded headboard. He looks up at the high ceiling, and his reflection looks down at him. The mirror is surprising to the few ladies and gentlemen he ever brings home to this room, and it’s hard to make them understand why he has it. It’s not any kind of kink for him, at least not a sexual one. He just likes to examine himself from unusual angles. He’s spent his whole life in the spotlight. He’s given his entire physical identity away to strangers. If everyone else gets to see him however and whenever they choose, he would like that opportunity as well, please.

He looks at himself, and he feels this moment, feels how the mattress yields beneath his body, feels the way his toes drag across the soft sheets. He feels the weight of the outfit he’s wearing, bearing down on his wrists and his nipples and his bollocks. It’s so tight that it’s practically inside him, and that thought proves quite interesting to his dick.

In the mirror, he sees his right sleeve slowly growing, creeping up to envelope his hand like a glove. But when he looks over, the sleeve is still in place, and his hand is free, and his mind is clearly playing tricks on him. He flicks his gaze back to the ceiling, and everything is as it should be.

Harry keeps deliberate eye contact with himself and thoughtfully cups his hardening cock through the material. He never watches himself when he wanks. Well...he _rarely_ watches himself when he wanks. But tonight, it feels vital. He is a delicious treat in this outfit, and he’s going to eat his fill of himself. His palm presses against his dick, and the fabric feels soft and generous on his flushed flesh. There’s a rippling sort of sensation that runs through his nerves, and it almost feels like the fabric is moving by itself. Like the suit is doing the work of wanking him off.

He looks into his own eyes and licks his lips. Christ, he turns himself on so much. This outfit is turning him on so much. Shame he has to take it off to really get down to business. Whatever this is, it’s too precious for him to come inside of.

_YOU CAN COME INSIDE US._

Uh. What?

 _WE DON’T MIND_.

“This is definitely dry-clean only,” Harry says out loud to _no one_ , what the _fuck_?

 _IF YOU INSIST_.

Before his eyes, the crotch of his catsuit rips away. Except...it doesn’t rip at all. The material gracefully, precisely parts, allowing his cock to jut through.

“What the fuck?” Harry says hesitantly, although god, that was kind of sick. “Excuse me, what the fuck?”

 _YOU MAY PROCEED_.

“I may what?” Christ, that voice is so deep and gravelly. It sounds like an exfoliating sugar scrub feels, musky and purposeful and revealing.

 _PLEASE PROCEED WITH TENDING TO OUR SEXUAL AROUSAL_.

“Oh,” Harry says breathily, “okay.” He reaches for his cock, which is now steadily leaking across his bare stomach, because oh fuck, if there’s anything that he loves, it’s being told what to do in bed.

He fists his dick, and his hips immediately thrust up. And then just as immediately, his body is slammed back down into the mattress, and the weight of the suit keeps his pelvis in place. Is the outfit holding him down? Holy shit, the outfit is holding him down, that is so fucking hot.

 _THANK YOU_.

“You’re welcome,” Harry keens. The sleeve of his suit spills down over his fingers again, and his wrist starts to move faster as he works his dick, like it’s helping him wank. “I mean, thank you. I mean...please?”

His head falls back, and he sees his own reflection again. His eyes look dark and opalescent, and he already looks fucked out and well-worked even though he’s just gotten started. He looks ruined, and he loves it.

 _NICE_.

“What’s that?” he pants.

 _WE LOOK NICE_.

“We do look nice,” Harry murmurs. “Christ, you feel good on my dick. Feels like you’re licking me with my own hand.”

 _TASTE NICE_.

Harry blinks at his reflection. His tongue feels a little weird in his mouth. Like someone else has their tongue in there with his. Like he’s tongue-kissing himself, with his own tongue. He opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue to see, and it’s just his normal tongue at first, but then it...keeps going. Like his tongue is longer than usual. He sticks it out farther and farther, just to see how much of it there really _is_. It doesn’t seem like it’s planning to stop any time soon.

His tongue is almost all the way down to his dick. He wonders. He...he wonders if it could possibly reach all the way to his hole.

 _PROBABLY_.

Harry comes hard, but his dick doesn’t soften, and his mind is in a flurry, racing with all the possibilities.

“Oh, boy,” he whispers to himself.

_OH, BOY._

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr post](http://1000-directions.tumblr.com/post/181534864534/sweet-creature-by-1000-directions-for)


End file.
